At least

Posted on August 16, 2012 by admin

At Least
By Laura McHale Holland

I never meant to leave him like that. I was driving to the mall to exchange some shoes that were too tight, and I just forgot he was there. Then I got sidetracked by all those end-of-summer sales. And then I saw my friend Rosie in the Starbucks line and I stopped to chat. I finally came out loaded up with goodies galore—flip flops, a new swimsuit, v-neck T’s, even some wading pool toys. It wasn’t until I opened the Camry’s door that I remembered he was there, because I saw him. Dead as a doornail in his car seat. Oh, what a shock. I mean, I killed my daughter’s baby.

At first I could barely see or breathe; the gravity of the situation hit me like a head-on collision. I sat in the driver’s seat, sun beating through the windshield, and leaned over the steering wheel. I sat there sweating like a pig and wishing I could just erase the last hour. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even make a sound. But then I must have gone on automatic pilot or something because all of a sudden I was on the freeway, heading home.

Once I pulled into my driveway, I lifted my grandson out of the car seat and talked to him just like I would have if we were coming home after an ordinary afternoon of errands. Then I put him down in his crib and sang him a lullabye that would always put him right to sleep with the sweetest smile on his face. I tucked his favoite stuffed bunny up by his shoulder just where he liked it, too.

When my daughter comes to pick him up, we’ll walk into the bedroom and find him cold, unresponsive. We’ll both be completely done in. What will I do when she cries out? When she picks up her baby and leans against me, sobbing? Should I say it might be SIDS? I can’t tell her I forgot her baby was in my car. If I do that, then she won’t have her mother’s shoulder to lean on as she goes through this. I have to give her that, at least.

A dime a dozen

Posted on April 29, 2012 by admin

Another episode in my series of connected flash fiction.

A Dime a Dozen
By Laura McHale Holland

Two uniformed officers break down the front door of a ramshackle home in an otherwise nondescript middle class neighborhood. The suspect, a spindly, gap-toothed man in ripped jeans and white T, flees out a back window. He is apprehended in the weeds by another officer who cuffs him, escorts him to a police van and shoves him inside.

In the basement, the police find the meth lab they’d suspected was there. Behind one locked door they also find a cache of assault rifles and ammunition. They expect to find the same behind another door, but when they clip off the padlock and pry open the door, they enter a windowless room with padded walls. A young woman cowers on a cot in a corner. She holds a small yellow blanket in one hand and a pink baby rattle in the other. She faints at the sight of them.

One officer rushes to her, lifts her up and carries her out in his arms. “You’re okay now. Whatever you’ve been through, it’s over now,” he says.

She opens her eyes, searches his face and asks, “Have you seen my baby, my baby girl, Chloe?” She passes out again.

Later that day, a few blocks from the meth lab, Janet, a middle-aged woman with worry lines creasing her face, watches the evening news. She observes an officer carrying what looks like a bone-thin young woman to a police car. Janet can’t see the face, but she notices the yellow blanket and pink rattle in the woman’s hands.

“Jasper, Japser, come quick!” she calls. “I just saw Carly on TV. They were carrying her out of that house that got raided today. Our Carly, Jasper. I saw Chloe’s blanket and rattle in her hands.”

Jasper sprints into the room and wraps his wife in his arms. It’s been more than three years since Carly, then only seventeen, nestled her baby, Chloe, into the carriage Janet and Jasper had just purchased for her. Carly planned to take five-day-old Chloe to visit her best friend one block away. But Carly and Chloe never made it there.

Initially, investigators on the case thought Carly had hitchhiked to visit her former boyfriend, the baby’s father, who was away a college. But they found him studying for exams in his dorm room. He hadn’t spoken with Carly since they’d broken up five months before. He said he’d relinquished his parental rights and didn’t want to have anything to do with Carly or the baby.

“Now, honey,” Jasper says. “Don’t get your hopes up too much. Those baby blankets and rattles are a dime a dozen.”

“We have to go see, Jasper. We have to go see.” She grabs her purse, picks up a framed picture of Carly and Chloe from a table by the door and runs outside. Jasper follows.

###

All of the episodes in this series in the order in which they were posted follow:

Back pocket wishes

Cascading to the sea

Right through the heart

Away today?

A dime a dozen

She doesn’t know them

On the seat

A pillar of the community

He needs a friend

Double rainbow

The one he always wants to hear

Give it some time

It gives my life meaning

Smiles

Extenuating circumstances

The four of us

Right through the heart

Posted on April 10, 2012 by admin

Right Through the Heart
By Laura McHale Holland

He had nothing against the man and woman rushing to the Mercedes, nor the paparazzi in pursuit, nor the throng of people flanking the spectacle at 3 p.m.—except that they were all in his way. He was angry, sure. Why should he have to pay hundreds of dollars to get his F-150 out of impound? There was no place to park except the white zone. What was he supposed to do? Skip the custody hearing so he couldn’t see his son anymore? No way. So he was gone at most half an hour. And the truck got towed. That frosted him, sure.

But he didn’t plan to use the assault rifle. It just felt good tucked inside his coat. Then one of those TV reporters knocked into him, pushed him aside and said, “Get out of the way, man!” So he pulled out the rifle, shot that reporter right in the head. People started screaming and he kept shooting and shooting, watching the blood spurt, the bodies fall. He got that man and woman, too, the ones rushing to that fancy car. Then he saw the girl in the back seat watching them fall. She had big brown eyes just like his son. He aimed the rifle at the police cars coverged on the scene, but he didn’t shoot. He let the officers shoot him right through the heart.

###

All of the episodes in this series in the order in which they were posted follow:

Back pocket wishes

Cascading to the sea

Right through the heart

Away today?

A dime a dozen

She doesn’t know them

On the seat

A pillar of the community

He needs a friend

Double rainbow

The one he always wants to hear

Give it some time

It gives my life meaning

Smiles

Extenuating circumstances

The four of us

Back pocket wishes

Posted on March 19, 2012 by admin

I edited this story a bit a few weeks after I posted it, so some of the comments people made in response to the earlier version might not make sense to someone reading the story and comments for the first time.

Back Pocket Wishes
By Laura McHale Holland

Sparks fly from his eyes when he passes the herd of microphone waving media. “It’s a family matter,” he growls, brushing a matinee idol curl from his forehead. His sandpaper grip wrenches his wife’s rigid wrist. Shoulders hunched, she glares at her toenails, manicured to perfection that morning.

From the chauffeured Mercedes idling at the curb, the child—conceived atop a pile of coats in a back bedroom the night her parents met—watches them approach. Her tiny fingers fumble for back pocket wishes, the simple things she yearns for but dares not show, as dread, seeping from the floor boards, soaks her mary jane shoes.

###

All of the episodes in this series in the order in which they were posted follow:

Back pocket wishes

Cascading to the sea

Right through the heart

Away today?

A dime a dozen

She doesn’t know them

On the seat

A pillar of the community

He needs a friend

Double rainbow

The one he always wants to hear

Give it some time

It gives my life meaning

Smiles

Extenuating circumstances

The four of us

Since the accident

Posted on November 1, 2011 by admin

Since the Accident
By Laura McHale Holland

Since the accident, the sun shines only at half mast and wrens roost in other yards. All day, she looks out the window as pine needles fall to the ground. At night, he drinks alone in the den while she knits in the bedroom.

Since the accident, soot falls from the clouds and rats nibble on the insulation in their attic. Over breakfast, their tongues bleach memories of that day from bright to blurred to translucent. No gouge remains in the trunk of an old oak tree; their Camry is not scorched; a blue tricycle is no longer smashed at the side of the road; a child is not struggling for each breath in a hospital bed.

He opens the front door and steps onto a porch stabbed with icicles. He walks down the empty driveway and into the street. She follows. Hand in hand they amble down blocks they used to know but no longer recognize. Horns blare for them to get out of the road. They pause at a curb, each one wanting to go home, neither one knowing the way.

She’ll be ready

Posted on September 20, 2011 by admin

She’ll Be Ready
By Laura McHale Holland

She ran down the sidewalk in the dark, block after block until she reached the end, the dead end, fenced off. She squinted at the wide-open field beyond, the goats under an oak, an old tractor rusted. Heart pounding, she climbed up the fence, jumped over the barbed wire top and ran behind the tractor.

Minutes later, he arrived, rifle in hand. She trembled as shots ricocheted off her metal refuge. She trembled as lights turned on all along the street, as a distant police siren grew louder, closer. She trembled when he was cuffed and pushed, swearing, into the police van. And she trembled as she packed a bag and called a cab for the airport.

Thousands of miles away now, she pumps iron, runs marathons, teaches karate. If he finds her, she’ll be ready.

She couldn’t wait

Posted on September 13, 2011 by admin

She Couldn’t Wait
By Laura McHale Holland

He lost his soul on the Sundial Bridge up in Redding. That girl Ava did it. She sashayed across, her camisole straps sliding down her bare shoulders, her Coach sunglasses shielding her gaze from sunlight reflecting off the Sacramento River.

She smiled. He smiled back. She paused, said hi. He stopped too, said hello and imagined sitting across from her at a dimly lit bistro, their knees touching beneath a wobbly table. She slid her sunglasses to the top of her head. He looked into her eyes and saw ebony ovals, no irises, pupils or whites. Just solid black nothingness sucking him into a deep, endless, terrifying space.

He fell, screaming to the bridge’s glass and granite deck. She bent over, laughed into his ear, stole his wallet and called 911. She told the dispatcher her name was Ava; she was just another tourist enjoying the bridge when a young man suddenly collapsed in mid span. He must have hit his head; he wasn’t moving. She said she couldn’t wait for the EMTs; she had to catch the charter to Yosemite Falls.

Late that night at the hospital, he rose from his bed and walked to the bathroom. He turned on the light, looked into the mirror and saw his eyes were crow-black just like hers. He slipped out of the hospital unnoticed, swiping a pair of Prada sunglasses from an unattended nurse’s station along the way. Now he traverses the country, searching for Ava, one landmark to the next.

My tormentors

Posted on August 1, 2011 by admin

My Tormentors
By Laura McHale Holland

They lurk in the spaces between words, in the pause before the stoplight changes from yellow to red. Always the same burgundy hue, they shift shapes, stand on the roof, slip into the junk drawer, crawl across palm fronds lining the sidewalk. They fly overhead today, pterodactylesque, their huge wings beating in counterpoint to my heart. I run, run, but they gain, sweep down, scratch my shoulders, arms, face. My toes turn into claws, my arms into baleful burgundy wings. Up, up, I go now chasing to the clouds my tormentors.

Creep him out

Posted on June 20, 2011 by admin

I had fun writing this one (actually I’ve enjoyed writing all of these). Who do you think is seeing reality?

Creep Him Out
By Laura McHale Holland

Wendy bites her lower lip and steps outside. Today’s caw, caw, cawing pelts her ears like gunshot, causing her to stumble as she dashes, hands over her ears, from front porch to carport. Why the murder of crows gathers every so often in the pines shading her townhouse she doesn’t know.

Their blue-black bodies darken the trees; their yellow eyes follow her every move as she settles into her Mazda and fastens the seatbelt. She starts the engine and backs out of the drive. They follow, their cacophony penetrating her glass, steel and plastic refuge. They swarm from tree to tree in her wake as she speeds down familiar side streets on her way to work. She turns up the volume on her CD player, hoping Freddy Mercury’s voice soaring on Bohemian Rhapsody will embolden her. But the caws just intensify, and the music grows fainter each time she turns up the volume.

By the time Wendy reaches the office, her heart is pounding, her breath is coming in short bursts and she is sweating through her clothes. Hundreds of crows alight in the pine trees edging the parking lot. She turns off the engine but can’t bring herself to open the door. She sits. The crows quiet down. She knows they’ll go away if she waits long enough.

Inside, Wendy’s boss is looking out his window. He sees no crows, only Wendy, still as a mannequin in her car. Why she stares without blinking up at the trees instead of coming into the office he doesn’t know. It seems to happen every couple of weeks. And when she finally comes inside she smells like sautéed onions. It’s starting to creep him out.

Cheap, knit gloves

Posted on April 18, 2011 by admin

Cheap, Knit Gloves
By Laura McHale Holland

It was after he had rolled off of her that the sandbag landed on her chest, before she could even consider her options. He stood up, put the knife he’d held at her throat in his back pocket and zipped up his pants with fingers that looked like striped Twinkies in his cheap, knit gloves. They were just like the gloves she’d seen hanging by the checkout line at the drugstore last week. She’d wondered at the time why anyone would buy them. Now she was trying hard not to look at the masked man who could have purchased that very pair. He slinked to her side, leaned down and growled into her ear, told her to count to 500 before she moved a muscle or he’d come back and finish her off.

She could barely breathe, the fear and dread and shame pressing down on her chest were so extreme. She didn’t dare even blink as he climbed out the window he’d come through while she was sleeping what seemed like a lifetime ago. She counted silently, 100, 200, 300, 400, 500, 600, 700, 800, 900, 1,000, 2,000, 3,000, 5,000, 10,000, 20,000, 50,000, 100,000— on and on she counted.

Through the sunrise she counted and then through the sunset. She counted until the moon came out and hung so close to her window it was as though someone had swept the earth’s atmosphere completely away, and her tears began to flow and then the sand poured out. She took a deep breath, lifted her arm, rolled over and picked her cell phone up from the headboard where she’d left it the night before.

The Pause

Posted on February 13, 2011 by admin

Here’s my bit of flash fiction for this week. Feedback welcome, of course. :)

The Pause

By Laura McHale Holland

She pulls on the bottom of her cashmere sweater and looks at the tires slashed, the windshield shattered, black paint poured on her dented vehicle and splashed all over the concrete walk and stairs. She tiptoes to the porch in her high heels, avoiding the paint. Upstairs her apartment door is ajar. She pauses, biting her red, red lips. He could have come and gone, leaving all her underwear strewn across the floor, her china broken in the kitchen, her desk upended, photos ripped in two. Or he could be inside, sitting in her old stuffed chair and smoking a meerschaum pipe. She’s tired of running, tired of the fear, tired of the sleepless nights year after year. She pulls a can of Mace from her purse, straightens her pencil skirt, stands up tall, kicks the door open and steps inside.